


a catalog of non-definitive acts

by firebrands



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Tony Stark, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, I Love Steve Rogers, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Miscommunication, Nonverbal Communication, Not Anti-Steve, POV Tony Stark, Secret Relationship, THEY ARE IDIOTS!!!!, Top Steve Rogers, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22616197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firebrands/pseuds/firebrands
Summary: Tony's seen the way Steve watches him, trails after him just for a moment, then catches himself. Let it never be said that Tony Stark doesn’t pay attention. At least, when it matters.*Or, Steve, Tony, and the emotional fallout of keeping secrets. (Set in some nebulous time pre-AoU.)
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 321
Kudos: 680





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> writing this has been... a process. woof. half done with this fic but i do think that posting it will give me the kick in the butt that i need to finish it!
> 
> thank you to [fiftyshadesofstony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiftyshadesofstony/pseuds/fiftyshadesofstony) and rise for helping me brainstorm this fic!
> 
> title from [Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out) by richard siken.

One afternoon Steve grabs Tony’s wrist and demands: “Is this what flirting is like now?”

It takes a split-second for Tony to track back to what he’d done; he’d complimented Steve’s hair, golden and soft in the late morning light filtering through the large windows of the kitchen. He’d kept his tone light, and he’d done it before—compliment Steve and wait to see how he’d take it.

Tony blinks at Steve, then curls his lips into a smirk. “Depends. Do you like it?”

Steve relaxes his grip on Tony’s hand, and Tony turns it palm up, waiting for Steve to complete the movement. He’s used to being forward, to doing things first, to getting what he wants, and oh, _god_ , how he wants--and he knows, too, that Steve wants him back. He’s seen the way Steve watches him, trails after him just for a moment, then catches himself.

Let it never be said that Tony Stark doesn’t pay attention. At least, when it matters.

Still--he’s not sure if Steve is ready to make a move. Hence the open palm, and a lesser man could misconstrue it as begging, sure. But to Tony, at least, it’s an offer, not a request.

Steve huffs out a laugh and then threads their fingers together. Tony won’t admit it, but he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. (So, maybe, a request. He would’ve thrown in a joking _please?_ If it had taken Steve any longer.)

Tony can’t help but mirror the fond smile on Steve’s lips, and it’s a bit surreal, to be looked at like that--to be made to feel as if you were worth something, something more than--Tony shuts his eyes tight, blinks away his train of thought. At this, Steve reaches up, cups his cheek.

Again, Tony finds himself holding his breath. He leans closer, though; he knows how this goes, and mercifully, Steve leans closer, too. The air around them is electric, and Tony feels dizzy with what he tells himself is oxygen loss. Steve’s eyes are impossibly blue, striking and sharp and looking straight at him.

“Tony,” Steve whispers, his name like a secret between them, his name like a question he can’t form, his name like the only name Tony ever wants him to say in that tone ever again. It shouldn’t be like this, he shouldn’t be so immediate in his possessiveness, in his _need_ , but Tony’s never known how to do anything in halves. Tony swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. all he can possibly do is nod under Steve’s gaze, so he does just that: he nods, leans closer, feels the tickle of Steve’s breath on his chin, then the soft flush of Steve’s lips against his.

Steve’s hand slides down his cheek, warm and pleasant at the base of his skull, pulling him closer. Tony groans at the touch, at the surprising largeness of Steve’s palm pressed flat against him, at the feeling of Steve’s fingers digging into his hair. Tony turns his head slightly, licks Steve’s mouth open, and it’s beautiful, it’s perfect, it drives Tony to a quick flash of insanity, maybe, and then Steve moans into his mouth and finally Tony’s brain shuts up for a moment.

In between kisses Tony half expects a klaxon to begin blaring somewhere, or for any of the Avengers to arrive from their impromptu trip to the farmer’s market.

But all he hears is Steve’s breath. Steve’s hands are sliding up and down his sides now, skating just above the hemline of his jeans, fisting up the fabric of his shirt as he clings to Tony when Tony begins to kiss down his neck. Tony hasn’t kissed someone so languorously in a long time; hasn’t kissed someone without purpose _ever_ , and Steve kisses him in a way that makes him not want to think about what happens next.

It’s too soon that the elevator dings and they have a precious few seconds to pull apart, and Tony feels very brave when he dives in for one last peck on Steve’s lips before the team filters in, arms laden with seasonal fruit.

Thor’s holding a bouquet of gardenias and yellow acacias. Tony makes a passing comment about their scent, and he catches Steve’s eye as he’s about to leave, hands securely wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. There’s a look there that he can’t even begin to decipher, his body still overwhelmed with want.

Over dinner later that night, Tony keeps his eyes on his pasta as Steve tells them about the show Clint made him watch.

Tony can’t say why he doesn’t want to look up, but the closest descriptor would be shyness; his lips still tingle at the thought that Steve had kissed him, and it felt—it _feels_ secret. He doesn’t trust himself to keep it secret, what with all the permutations of joy bubbling inside him. He was barely keeping it together, fights back the instinct to just launch himself over the table just so he can feel Steve’s lips on his again, to hear Steve whisper his name.

So Tony twirls his pasta and stabs unnecessarily hard at an errant shrimp. The group bursts into laughter at something Steve says, and Tony follows suit, a millisecond delayed, and he glances up to check if anyone has noticed.

His eyes meet Steve’s, and the grin on Steve’s lips softens; for a moment, he looks relieved, as if he’d been looking at Tony all this time, just waiting for him to look back.

Tony can’t help but mirror Steve’s smile, but keeps it small, barely noticeable. He keeps the look within the realm of acknowledgment.

Under the table, he feels a foot nudge his. Tony looks back up to check, and the smile is still on Steve’s lips, a bit brighter now, slightly mischievous. Tony kicks Steve’s foot away, half-enamored and half-embarrassed by the color rising to his cheeks.

* * *

Steve looks up in surprise when Tony enters the room and closes the door behind him. There are very few reasons for Tony to ever show up early for anything. A new one on the list is Steve, and Tony knowing that Steve would be early to their mission debrief.

There’s a moment that seems to stretch on to infinity where they hold each other’s gazes, as if gauging the proximity they shared the day prior, and then seeing if they would close that gap again. Steve’s hand is on the desk, and he curls it into a fist.

Tony swallows, then says in a tone that’s a bit too soft for his liking: “Hey.”

Steve stands abruptly, his pen clattering to the floor as he closes the space between them. Tony’s eyes flick down, then up just in time to note the way Steve’s fingers look with Tony’s tie crushed in Steve’s fist. There’s barely any space to breath between them now with Steve’s mouth hovering tentatively above Tony’s, so close that Tony can imagine that he feels the heat radiating off Steve’s cheeks in waves.

“Are you going to say no?” Steve asks, his whisper harsh and desperate and wanting all at once. It’s an easy out, but Tony wants more, wants to try and test and taste it all before he’s done.

Tony shakes his head in response, his head already sinking into that singular dizziness aroused by Steve’s presence. He can’t think, can’t form words beyond Steve’s name; somewhere in his sternum, he realizes that the quick acquiescence so unlike him. Still: he reaches up, wraps his hand around the base of Steve’s skull, and Steve’s eyes flutter shut just as Tony kisses him.

Steve’s careful not to rumple Tony’s suit, hands sliding down to rest on Tony’s waist, right under his jacket. He kisses Tony hungrily, like he’s looking for answers, and when Tony pulls away to suck in a breath, Steve touches their foreheads together, panting slightly as he says, “I want—”

Tony kisses him quiet; they don’t have time for what more they could want (and he does, he wants, he _needs_ ) and then Steve looks up, startled, then takes a step back, and then another, and then Natasha opens the door.

The rest of the team file in silently, and Tony leans back on his chair, taps absently on his phone. He glances up occasionally, just quick enough to catch Steve looking away.

From all his years spent dancing around people who wanted him, any part of him, Tony knows enough about human desire. He knows what Steve wants, on its basest level, and he only has to let his gaze linger on Steve’s profile for a few seconds before Steve turns to look back at him.

Steve tilts his chin up slightly, questioning, and all Tony does in response is give Steve a small nod. Steve turns away, picks up a glass of water and takes a long pull; Tony lets himself watch the way Steve’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, lets himself think of resting his lips there later.

Tony doesn’t look at Steve for the rest of the meeting, but can tell that Steve isn’t as sly; he spends half the time looking at Tony so intently that Tony has half a mind to snap at Steve and say, _it’s rude to stare._ But it suits Tony, to be treated this way; he knows who he is, and has never had to try too hard to be at the center of attention. With Steve, though-- it’s nice to know that he doesn’t have to try at all.

Once the meeting is finally adjourned, Tony hides his disappointment that Steve doesn’t just shut the door and ravish him on the table when everyone leaves. Instead, Steve walks out the door, sparing a moment to glance at Tony and jerk his head towards the direction of the elevator.

Tony very nearly huffs at the gruffness of the command, but stands up and follows instead. Steve slows his pace down and by the time the two of them have reached the elevator, it’s full to capacity with the team and the agents who want to share the same oxygen as Thor.

“See you at the tower,” Steve says airily, and Clint throws them a lazy salute in response.

The elevator lobby begins to fill with other agents, and it’s only a few seconds before another elevator opens up. Tony steps in, leans against the glass of the wall, and crosses his arms over his chest.

He watches Steve, catches the stern look he gives any agent that shows the slightest hint of intent at joining them. They all back off, wary of Steve’s ire, and Tony has to smother a laugh behind his hand. Steve waits for the elevator doors to shut before he rounds on Tony and fixes him with a look that Tony can only describe as smouldering.

“As I was saying,” Steve says, closing the distance between them with two short steps.

“You were,” Tony says, relaxing even further against the wall of the elevator, his interest only given away by how he keeps himself standing by closing a fist on the rail behind him.

Steve hums in response, leaning forward and resting his hands on the rails behind Tony, hands barely an inch away from Tony’s. At this, Tony is suddenly much more aware of how large Steve is compared to him, suddenly surprised by the bulk and heft of Steve bracketing him against the glass.

Tony casts an appreciative glance at the way Steve’s forearms flex and look under his rolled up sleeves, then looks up to meet Steve’s eyes. Steve stares back down at him, the smile on his lips is almost predatory. Tony bites down on his lip, and catches Steve’s eyes flicker down.

Tony parts his lips to make a joke about hurrying up, or a comment on how many floors they have left (how many _do_ they have left?) when Steve mirrors his action from an hour and a half ago: he grips Tony’s tie, pulls him close, and kisses Tony hard on the lips.

There’s something to be said about being pressed flush against a glass elevator, the whole New York behind you as Captain America sticks his tongue in your mouth, but Tony’s brain is short circuiting at Steve’s touch and Steve’s breath and Steve’s mouth, and nothing could possibly more important than Steve at this moment.

Steve’s touches are rough and clumsy, rucking up Tony’s shirt so he can touch the skin under, making Tony shiver. He pulls away and begins to kiss down Tony’s neck and in a brief moment of lucidity, Tony thinks, _is this what stupid people feel like?_ His brain has never been so quiet, so focused on the singular unravelling before him. Steve nips on the skin of Tony’s neck and Tony inhales sharply when Steve’s hands slide down his chest to rest just above Tony’s belt.

“Steve,” Tony groans, throwing his head back in exasperation. For a brief second, Steve is gone, and by the time Tony manages to orient himself to check what’s happened, he’s jolted by the sudden stop of the elevator.

“Oh, god,” Tony says, and then Steve is kneeling in front of him, sucking on his bottom lip as he unbuckles Tony’s belt. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” Tony says, disbelief and arousal making his voice crack a little. He watches as Steve slowly slides down his pants, catalogs the look on Steve’s face, the feel of Steve’s hands on him.

Steve looks up at the hitch in Tony’s breath. He slides his hand up to Tony’s hip, holds Tony down as he parts his lips open. He holds Tony’s gaze as his lips encircle Tony’s cock.

Tony knows enough about human desire. But in spite of all those years, he’d never seen it reflected so fiercely in someone else’s eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

They’re in a different but similarly bland conference room discussing reconnaissance reports when Tony yawns and stretches. It’s not a move, at least, he doesn’t mean for it to be, but his arm lands just along Steve’s shoulders.

(Maybe at this point it’s subconscious, ingrained in him to push boundaries and test his theories. He’s spent more time than he’d like wondering what the limits were after he’d come down Steve’s throat and Steve had tucked him back into his pants, completely nonchalant, and let the elevator continue its descent once Tony had righted himself. Tony had offered, too, to reciprocate; he’s not an asshole, much as everyone would like to think. But Steve smiled and said, _next time_. There hadn’t been a next time, not yet, and this is why he’s not so sure about the result of this unplanned experiment. He hopes for the best but—) It’s a small movement, almost imperceptible, the shift in Steve’s shoulders as he shrugs off Tony’s arm.

Tony moves slowly as he backs off so as not to draw attention to himself; it feels unnatural to do so, to aim for smallness. A part of him sees the beginnings of a pattern; a bigger part of him chooses to ignore the worry that begins to burrow underneath his skin.

Tony picks up his pen, begins to twirl it around his fingers as he half-listens to Nick and reorients himself with this new information. Of course, it makes sense—Steve wouldn’t be too keen on coming out, even if just to them, and to come out with Tony as his partner—well. This isn’t Tony’s first rodeo. He knows how it goes, knows what people think of him.

He slides down the seat, slouching and stretching out his legs. Besides, he figures, it’s _Steve_. Not Captain America—Steve. Focused and determined, intelligent and cultured; kind and generous and selfless Steve. Sure, he can be a smartass, and sure, he’s probably going to break Tony’s heart if he carries on like this, but the fact remains: It’s Steve. Tony’s a genius, but even an idiot can see that they’re not a great match. Tony consoles himself with the knowledge that at least, for a while, they have this. Whatever it is. Maybe that’ll be enough. _Maybe_ , Tony thinks to himself, just as the pen spins out of control and skids across the table.

(As the meeting drags on, not once does Tony ask what he wants, or why he wants. Ever since, people have always asked those questions of him; he’s never learned to ask it of himself.)

* * *

They’re choosing the movie to watch next and Tony rests his hand on Steve’s thigh as he makes a spirited argument for Pacific Rim. Again, it’s not intentional, but Steve jerks his leg from under Tony’s palm so abruptly that Tony stops mid-sentence. No one seems to pay this any heed; Tony touches everyone all the time. (What Tony thinks no one else has noticed, though, is that Steve doesn’t touch anyone.)

Clint picks up the argument on Tony’s behalf (and if anything could grab anyone’s attention, it’s Tony and Clint _agreeing_ on something), which gives Tony the opportunity to look at Steve without fear of—Tony’s thoughts stutter to a halt. Without fear of what, exactly?

Steve’s already looking at Tony, eyebrows drawn together and mouth pinched into a frown. He doesn’t have to say anything, and Tony knows he won’t. What irks Tony is that he’s done this before—before anything. Touched Steve without purpose or design. Now that Steve’s had Tony’s cock in his mouth, he can’t do that anymore? Tony wants to shout, _This isn’t fair!_ But then he knows how he’ll sound. So instead, he gets up from his seat beside Steve and walks to his workshop without saying a word to anyone else. No one follows after him. This is another thing everyone’s become used to, Tony leaving suddenly, and he’s sure they chalk it up to a sudden stroke of brilliance.

It isn’t that, though, obviously. He knows there isn’t anything for him to repair, but he asks JARVIS anyway, to give himself time to think—by the time JARVIS answers in the negative, Tony picks up the latest version of a gauntlet and gets to fiddling.

He understands himself well enough to know that tinkering isn’t doing anything to clear out his thoughts. If anything, this is one of the few times when what he’s working on begins to mirror the way he’s thinking. The work is imprecise and tangled, and he knows better, he should _know better_ , but in a stunning display that proves every single person who’s called him a genius to be false, he slips the gauntlet on sans plating and tests out the repulsor.

Tony’s in the middle of reapplying bandages to all the small nicks and cuts on his torso when he hears a knock on his door. It takes him a few more seconds to finish up and answer—when he swings the door open, he reaches out automatically to catch Steve’s wrist just as he’s about to turn away.

“Impatient,” Tony remarks, pulling Steve into his room and shutting the door. Steve tuts in response, but it’s undercut by the gentle way he checks Tony’s bandages.

“Does it hurt?” has asks, hand sliding up Tony’s arm to smooth down the medical tape holding down the gauze on Tony’s forearm.

“Not more than usual,” Tony says.

“JARVIS—” Steve starts.

“I figured,” Tony cuts in. The mention of his AI explains how Steve found out about the explosion and subsequent injury, but not so much why Steve came up to Tony’s room in the middle of the night. Especially when a few hours earlier Tony’s touch seemed so repulsive.

Steve takes Tony’s hands in his and presses a soft kiss to Tony’s fingers. Tony hates the way his breath hitches audibly at the sudden affection, hates that he wants more of it, wants to hoard every single one of Steve’s kisses for a time when they’ll no longer be as bountiful. Tony watches as Steve’s lips curl into a smile, and he looks up at Tony as he brushes his lips against Tony’s knuckles.

Tony lets out a shaky breath, unsure of what to do next, of what he’ll be allowed to do—then Steve takes Tony’s chin in his hand and tilts his jaw up. Steve swallows and looks away for a moment, then turns back to Tony. Tony realizes it’s as much permission he’s going to get, and a small thrill shoots up Tony’s spine as he rises up just a little on his toes, enough to get his face barely an inch away from Steve’s.

So, maybe, maybe this isn’t a good idea, Tony thinks, thoughts racing through his mind so quickly he barely notices the small smile Steve spares him just before kissing him, soft and slow. It gets harder to think when Steve parts his lips open; Tony’s brain recalibrates to begin indexing the way Steve’s skin feels, the way Steve’s muscles shift under his touch, the ridges of wounds on his back that are already beginning to heal.

Steve’s thigh presses against Tony’s, and he walks them back towards Tony’s bed, and oh, god, isn’t that a thought? Tony thinks, already half delirious with Steve’s tongue in his mouth, his palms flush against the swell of Steve’s ass.

Steve barely pulls away, his lips still ghosting against Tony’s when he murmurs, “lie down,” and yes, Tony’s got a problem with authority but somehow his mind has taken this as an offer, not an order.

Tony’s knees are bracketing Steve’s hips and he can feel the curve of Steve’s cock against his. He feels like he’s an engine overheating, like his insides are full of steam and Steve’s the only one who can release the pressure. Vaguely, he realizes that he should be bothered by the way his body is singing with pain and soreness, but nothing else matters. Just Steve, and his hands, and his lips on Tony’s collarbone.

“Steve,” Tony breathes out, once again unable to form words, or any rational thought. Steve responds by sliding his hand down Tony’s side, worming around Tony’s waist to pull him closer. He’s being impossibly tender, pressing soft kisses all over Tony’s chest, his hands skating over the bandages, as if he’s on a mission to map every part of him. “Steve,” Tony says again, more urgently this time.

Steve disregards him, begins to lick and suck gently on Tony’s nipple, smiling slightly as Tony begins to writhe under him. “Harder,” Tony moans, and Steve doesn’t mind him, keeps his maddening pace.

“Please,” and it comes out much softer than he means it to, but all that matters at the moment is it’s what gets Steve to stop and look up at him. Out of everything Steve is doing to him, it’s the look Steve gives him that makes Tony gasp. There’s a word for that look. Tony conveniently forgets what it is.

Tony’s only half asleep when he feels the bed rise. He keeps his eyes shut as he listens to the rustle of clothing, the soft pad of Steve’s steps, the barely perceptible click of his door opening.

The words are out of Tony’s mouth before he even finishes the thought. “Stay,” he says, then he rolls over to his side, away from the door and Steve’s retreating back. He strains to hear what happens next, remains resolute in his decision to hide after his faux pas. He listens, and hears Steve walk back into the bedroom. He feels the bed dip, then feels Steve settle in beside him.

Tony lets out a small breath, relieved and content now that Steve’s back. Steve wraps an arm around Tony’s torso, takes a breath, and then presses a small kiss to the skin behind Tony’s ear.

Tony bites down on his lip, tamps down on the urge to verbalize his appreciation.

When he wakes up the next morning, he figures he was right not to say anything else; the bed is large, and empty, and cold. Thankfully, JARVIS increases the room temperature without Tony having to ask.

* * *

Fury’s intel comes through and the battle versus Justin Hammer’s robots is taxing, not for their ingenuity but because there are so many. It doesn’t help that Tony hasn’t had a decent night of sleep in almost a week (Tony’s lost count of how many times it’s happened between them, but Steve had stayed for a while, curled his body around Tony’s and dozed off on the couch in Tony’s penthouse, only for Tony to wake up alone, again).

Tony’s busy calculating the trajectory of his missiles for maximum impact when he’s suddenly knocked backwards and down by errant debris. He bangs along the fire escapes and the bricks of the opposite wall and lands flat on his back on one of the grimier side streets of New York.

He takes a moment to reorient himself and let out a few choice curse words, and he hasn’t even righted himself up when Steve arrives at his side, breathing hard.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Tony snaps, annoyed by the earnestness of Steve’s tone. The commlink crackles back to life, just in time to hear Steve say: “Tony’s fine.”

Despite this, Steve still does a cursory check of the armor, using his hands to feel for any alarming indents.

“I said I’m fine,” Tony says, irritation clipping his speech.

“Okay, okay,” Steve says, placating. Steve seems to take a moment to center himself, then he reaches over to rest his hand on the cheek of Tony’s helmet. “Just take care, Tony,” he says softly.

Tony sighs, exasperated at this display. He blinks when he notices Steve glance around the alley they’re occupying, and then blinks again when Steve leans forward and presses a kiss to the top of Tony’s helmet. Tony knows he shouldn’t (can’t) feel the warmth of Steve’s lips, but he does; he has the sense memory to fill up the space.

“I will,” Tony acquiesces, and moves to get up. He files the moment away for further dissection, and helps Steve up. They stand beside each other for another second longer than necessary before throwing themselves back into the fray.

* * *

Tony finally gets Steve alone two days later, late at night in the kitchen. Tony disregards his need for caffeine, instead crowds Steve up against the counter and pulls him in for a kiss.

Steve’s hands immediately settle on Tony’s hips, and then they’re grinding against each other and yes, maybe Tony had intended to make a joke to thank Steve for being the first person to leave him alone in bed rather than the other way around. Intended to make light of the remorse he now felt, for all those times he’d left others. He’d meant to make a joke about the kiss Steve had all but seared into Tony’s forehead, teased him by asking, _well, where’d all that affection go, huh?_

Yes, yes, yes, he’d meant to, but now Steve’s knee is slotted in between Tony’s legs and Tony doesn’t even try to stop himself from rutting against it.

Steve steers them towards the elevator, hands roaming all over Tony’s arms, Tony’s back, Tony’s chest. Tony pulls away once they’re inside the elevator to direct them to Steve’s floor but Steve beats him to it, and then they’re in Tony’s penthouse, and Tony’s shirt is on the floor, and when did it become acceptable, Tony wonders, that he can’t seem to get a word in edgewise?

Steve fucks him hard against the wall, Tony’s legs wrapped around Steve’s waist as Steve takes, and there’s something to be said about how easily Tony divests control, how delirious with desire he feels when Steve pins him against the wall, growling praise into his ear.

Tony throws his head back sharply when he comes and is rewarded by the starburst of pain in the back of his skull mixed with the pleasure of release. Steve fucks him through it, bites at the exposed column of Tony’s neck. When Steve’s done, Tony’s too spent to stand properly, not that he’d ever admit that out loud. He doesn’t have to, though, and without any preamble Steve carries him back to his bed. He sighs softly when Steve lays him down, closes his eyes as Steve disappears and only opens them when he feels the soft touch of a damp towel on his stomach.

Tony bites down on his lip at the attention, at the strange tenderness of the scene. It’s the perfect time to make a quip, something about care, fondness. But Steve is looking at him so earnestly as he presses a kiss to Tony’s temple that all the words dry in his throat.

He doesn’t make a request for Steve to stay. Steve doesn’t offer.


	3. Chapter 3

Tony’s hunched over schematics when he feels two arms wrap around his waist. Tony hums in response, and already begins to mentally pack up; he knows what comes next.

Steve starts by kissing the back of Tony’s neck, soft and gentle, then tightens his embrace. “What are you up to?” he asks, like it’s any regular Tuesday.

Tony takes a breath. “Just thinking,” he says. This, he’s more used to: hiding, pretending, being wilfully obtuse. It’s times like this that he wishes he was stupider, wishes he didn’t already figure how this conversation would go.

But he isn’t stupid, so he isn’t surprised when Steve kisses the back of his neck again and says teasingly, “About me, I hope.” Steve’s hand is rubbing small circles on Tony’s stomach and it’s distracting, the simplicity of Steve’s Steve-ness.

Tony tilts his head back to rest against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve turns his head to press a kiss against Tony’s neck, just above his aorta.

“Of course,” Tony answers, can’t bear to say more than that. He already feels like he’s given too much away, that he keeps giving too much away.

Steve presses a line of kisses up Tony’s neck, stopping just below Tony’s ear. “Good,” he murmurs, making Tony shiver. Tony can tell that Steve’s smiling at his reaction, and Tony turns to look at Steve, and they’re close enough for Tony to see the rings around Steve’s eyes and somehow, in spite of everything, he’s still so taken in by how gorgeous Steve is.

Steve bops Tony’s nose with his before kissing him, and the easy affection makes Tony a little lightheaded. Tony parts his mouth open, moans as Steve’s hands begin wandering down the band of his sweatpants, and then the alarm sounds and they’re off each other immediately.

* * *

It’s par for the course that after everything, somehow, Tony wakes up in a hospital bed. Tony’s first reaction upon waking up is to roll his eyes. “What’s the situation, J?”

“Good evening, sir. You were hit rather badly by one of the bank robber’s rockets and landed on your head as you fell. You have a minor concussion but all signs point to you being fine within the next day.”

Tony sighs. “Of course.” Criminals in New York who had access to upgraded tech. God bless the new world.

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours. It is currently 11 PM.”

Tony grunts in response, then reaches over to the bedside table where someone was considerate enough to leave a glass of water. Tony’s about to lie back down when the door swings open, and Tony thinks that he might be a bit more concussed than JARVIS is saying because somehow, Steve’s presence is illuminating.

“You’re awake,” Steve says, relief clear in his tone.

“You’re here,” Tony deadpans.

For a brief moment, Steve looks chastened. “I went to get something to eat.”

Tony nods, settles back into the bed. “Anything left for me?”

“I can fix up something for you,” Steve offers, resting his hand on top of Tony’s.

“It’s fine. Just teasing.” Tony turns his palm up. He’s done this before, again and again after the first time. He feels foolish thinking that it means something for Steve, too.

Just as Steve’s about to thread their fingers together, the door swings open again: Thor, this time, and just like a flash of lighting Tony’s hand is cold and empty. Steve’s hand is curled into a fist on the railing of the hospital bed.

“Anthony!” Thor grins, pulling Tony into a gentle embrace. “I had no doubt in your recovery,” he says, tightening his arms around Tony’s shoulders briefly before pulling away.

“That is, unlike some of us,” Thor says, casting an accusing glance at Steve. It’s undercut by Thor’s almost immediate laughter; he’s never been good at letting a joke simmer.

“Oh, really,” Tony says, and it’s a practiced movement, to raise a smirk to his lips. See? It’s funny. It’s funny that Steve cares about Tony, to any degree. Everyone’s in on the joke.

Steve ducks his head, mumbles something under his breath that neither Thor nor Tony catch.

Thor smiles at Tony, warm and goofy. “I am glad you are all right,” he says, resting his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Come, Steven. Let us leave Anthony to recuperate.”

Tony watches for Steve’s reaction, doesn’t miss the way he looks up abruptly, how he opens his mouth to say something then just as quickly shuts it.

Thor’s already turning away, his hand now on Steve’s arm, tugging him along.

“Actually I—“ Steve says, fumbling around for words and he wrestles his arm away from Thor’s grip. “I have to talk to Tony,” he finishes lamely. Tony bites down on his lip to stifle his laughter, and settle back down onto the bed. If it were anyone else from the team, they’d have stopped in their tracks and looked at Steve funny. But it’s Thor, and these small tells are things he’s still learning.

“It’s fine, Steve,” he says, raising his hand to uncurl Steve’s fist. But he’s too slow, and Steve snatches his hand away. The smile dies on Tony’s lips, and he lets his hand fall limply back to his side.

He’s sure Steve doesn’t notice the shift, still seemingly intent on staying. Thor’s out the door with a shake of his head, calling out to Steve one last time before the door shuts: “Do not berate him for his mistakes, Steven!”

Tony knows Thor’s referring to the battle, to how despite everything Tony still gets into these scrapes—the unspoken implication of Tony’s imperfections—but it sings true to everything between him and Steve, and the offhand comment makes Tony turn away to hide his frown.

Steve, meanwhile, lets out an uncharacteristic scoff at Thor’s comment, like it’s the last thing on his mind to berate Tony. Part of Tony hopes that’s true, in any form; that Steve isn’t going to chide him for literally showing his hand just moments ago. At this point it’s an unspoken rule, to keep whatever it is between them just _between them._

Once the door clicks shut, Steve takes Tony’s hand in his, his grip warm and secure, and Tony reads so much into it—the implication of secrecy, the physical relief at the sudden affection, Steve’s _care—_ that he misses whatever Steve says to him.

“Tony?” Steve asks, squeezing Tony’s hand a little.

“What?” Tony feels dazed, and it’s not just the concussion.

“I asked if you wanted me to get you some food, or if you’d like to rest.” There’s worry in Steve’s face, clear in the small frown on his lips, the intensity of his gaze.

“It’s fine,” Tony replies, exhaustion settling in on him like a heavy blanket. He would like a great many things that he knows he isn’t going to get and he’s too tired to keep up this charade tonight. He’s been too tired for a while, if he’s being honest. (But he isn’t, very rarely is, and what does it matter if he’s tired, anyway? It’s pathetic that he feels slighted by the numerous small rebuffs. It’s pathetic that in the middle of the night, this night and all the others, he just wants the simple joy of Steve’s touch.)

“Okay,” Steve smiles and leans over the railing to press a soft kiss on Tony’s forehead.

Tony swallows, tilts his chin up. It’s a question he hopes Steve will answer.

Steve smiles again, and begins to kiss a trail down Tony’s face: a kiss on the space between Tony’s eyebrows, three kisses down the ridge of Tony’s nose. His lips hover over Tony’s for a moment, and Tony’s breathing is shallow with anticipation.

Steve shuts his eyes and sighs, leans closer so their foreheads touch. It feels so intimate that it’s almost painful. Tony wants—he wants too much. Too much. He’d settle for a kiss, right about now. Why can’t Steve just give him that?

“God, Tony,” Steve whispers, and Tony wants to cry, now, his chest swelling so quickly that it threatens to burst with how much he feels at the broken sound of Steve’s voice, telegraphing fear and relief and—Tony must be imagining things, because there’s a word, there’s one word in the whole history of human desire that encapsulates the emotion behind Steve saying his name. There’s a word for how Tony has felt all those times they’d sought each other out, silent and secret, hidden between the closed doors of the workshop, double-checking to ensure they aren’t seen when they make their way up to the penthouse. There’s a word for all the times Tony’s wanted Steve to stay, for all the times Tony had reached out to just take what he wanted so badly to be his. There’s a word for the way he lets Steve hold him, the look they share in the afterglow.

But Tony knows that can’t be it.

Tony doesn’t say anything, instead cranes his neck forward and doesn’t miss the mark: Steve’s lips on his are familiar and soft. Steve kisses back but pulls away too quickly, and somehow, Tony feels he’s not the only one who’s disappointed.

“You should get some rest,” Steve says, shifting a chair closer to the bed with his free hand. He smiles at Tony as he takes a seat, but the smile is weak, almost false.

They’re silent for a moment, and Tony takes a deep breath before saying, “You can go ahead.”

“Go ahead where?” Steve asks, confused. Tony takes advantage of this and disentangles his hand from Steve’s grip.

“To bed?”

“I can stay,” Steve says, and takes Tony’s hand in his again.

Tony knows Steve doesn’t have to, and can’t fathom the reason as to why; he’s never wanted to stay before. Is it always going to take an injury to keep him?

He looks down at their intertwined fingers and sighs at the knowledge that he’d put himself through hell if that’s what it did take. (But then again: isn’t this hell enough already?)

He means to talk more, but falls asleep too soon. When he wakes up a few hours later, Steve’s gone, and Tony’s hand is tucked securely under a blanket. He waits a few minutes in vain hope that Steve’s stomach had driven him to another ill-timed snack break, but he can’t say he’s surprised that half an hour later Steve doesn’t come back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh this was… difficult to write. sorry it took a while. also was a bit more intentional in making this more dialogue heavy. i was really nervous about writing bruce because ??? bruce is literally my favorite character of all time and i've always been anxious of writing him wrong BUT it was really enjoyable to write up his public persona here, all while exploring what was / could be his relationship with tony. 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me. 
> 
> big thanks again to emily and flame for looking through this for me!

Tony adjusts his tie for the third time that night as he waits for Steve in the living room. Steve had drawn the short straw to accompany Tony to a charity gala—this time, for upgrading a hospital.

Tony hasn’t spoken to him much since he’d snuck out of the clinic and developed a new design for a jet. He tries not to read into the fact that Steve hasn’t tried to speak to him either. In any case, this song and dance isn’t anything new; they’ve been assigned to attend fancy dinners together, and tonight doesn’t strike Tony as anything different.

Except when the elevator doors open, Steve is standing inside wearing a deliciously cut suit, dark blue silk with black satin lapels. For a second, Tony is speechless, then he says: “Is that Ferragamo?”

Steve ducks his head. “Natasha helped,” he says, sounding sheepish.

“It looks good,” Tony says, trusting that he sounds offhand about it, trusting that his voice doesn’t betray the split second choice to say _it_ not _you_. Steve holds the door open for Tony, and they settle into a calm silence as the elevator whizzes down to the building lobby. Happy’s waiting for them, a loan from Pepper that only ever happens for big galas like this one.

The silence continues in the Rolls, and for a brief moment Tony considers resting his hand on the seat, just to see what Steve would do. But it strikes him too much as a move meant for prom night, and they’re way past acting like teenagers. He wants to know where Steve went, why he didn’t come back, why he hasn’t sought out Tony since. He wants to know where he stands in all of this.

He wants to know if he means anything. If he could _ever_ mean anything.

But he only has enough emotional bandwidth for about two hours at the gala tonight, and they have to present a united front. It’s no use getting into a discussion now, he tells himself. He won’t admit that he’s more afraid to find out the answers.

He and Steve stand side by side for photos at the entrance, then are hustled inside by an organizer. She tries to go through the main guests of the night (code for the largest potential donors), but Tony waves her away. It’s almost rude, that they don’t think he’d know. Steve, meanwhile, stays for the quick briefing, and Tony leaves them to begin mingling.

It’s from this brief act of hubris that Tony is greeted by the sight of guests crowding around a billionaire that is decidedly _not him_. Tony frowns, and then realization dawns on him.

“Brucie, baby,” he cries out, and the aforementioned billionaire turns to look at Tony, along with his gaggle of onlookers. Bruce looks immaculate, as always, and he pulls Tony into a tight hug.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” he mutters, his breath hot against Tony’s ear.

“But you let everyone call you Brucie,” Tony whines as he pulls away and gives Bruce a once over.

Bruce rolls his eyes fondly and begins to steer Tony away from the crowd and towards the bar. If Tony knows Bruce Wayne (and he does, _biblically_ ) he knows too that Bruce was just as aware of the cameras raised up to document their greeting and wanted a brief moment of privacy.

“So where’s your date?” Bruce asks as he makes eye contact with the bartender and throws up two fingers.

Tony shakes his head in response. “No date, just Captain America.”

Bruce barks out a laugh. “Then you should’ve had a grander entrance.”

Tony frowns, because he’s right—in another world, a topsy turvy absurd universe, they could’ve walked into the gala hand in hand. They’d smile for the cameras, and Steve would duck his head down to whisper in Tony’s ear about how he was looking forward to going home already, and Tony would laugh, and lean even closer and Steve would reward him with a small kiss, in front of everyone, and—

“Well, where’s _your_ date, then?” Tony snaps.

Bruce shrugs, and for a wild moment Tony is distracted by how broad his shoulders are. “Maybe I came to New York to find a date,” he says, nonchalant. Then he angles his body closer towards Tony. “Maybe I came to see my old friend,” he purrs.

Tony makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Fuck you, Wayne.”

“That an offer I hear?” Bruce’s grin is sharp as a knife’s edge, and Tony is briefly transported to his earlier days, wild and exuberant, hand in hand with Bruce as they partied like the world was ending.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Could you at least let me go through the room and secure some donations before you proposition me?”

Bruce sighs, exasperated. “Fine. Find me if you want to talk.” He winks at Tony then saunters away, almost immediately swallowed up by a new crowd of hangers-on.

Tony steels himself, finishes his drink, and steps into the crowd. His gaze is drawn to Steve, already mid-conversation, eyebrows drawn together in an earnest expression as he undoubtedly discusses the importance of their cause.

As the night drones on, Tony finds himself drawn more and more back to Bruce, who’s rested his hand just above Tony’s elbow and plied him with little plates of food for the third time now. It’s nice, to be doted on, and to be doted on publicly to boot. Tony’s in the middle of discussing the recent merger when he feels Bruce stand beside him, hors d'oeuvres in hand.

Tony turns and smiles, accepts the plate without any comment, and lets Bruce take the lead; the oil heiress Tony was speaking to moments prior is enamored by Bruce, and is evidently overjoyed at having both billionaire bachelors at her attention.

He focuses on chewing his food, watching Bruce in the corner of his eye. Again, he finds himself considering this option: it would be complicated, surely, but every relationship that involved Tony was invariably so. It could be easy, too, though. Somehow. As Tony licks sauce off his fingers, he thinks, well—maybe. It’s been years since he and Bruce had really spent time together, and then Bruce had disappeared and reappeared and Tony had done the same.

Donation secured, Bruce excuses himself and Tony from the conversation. “Smoke?” he asks, and Tony nods. They head out to the balcony slowly, stopping every few steps to greet someone or other. As Tony’s about to cross the threshold of the room, he feels like he’s being watched—not a new feeling, or an unwelcome one, but intense enough to give Tony pause. He turns, doing a quick survey of the room. He catches sight of Steve, surprisingly only a few feet away from him. Steve’s looking at a painting, his neck craned up to examine the work.

Tony furrows his brow and finally follows Bruce out into the cold night. “I thought you quit smoking,” Tony says, walking up to Bruce, who’s resting his forearms against the railing of the balcony.

“I did,” Bruce answers, casting a glance over his shoulder to meet Tony’s eyes. He jerks his head forward, beckoning Tony closer. “What would you say if I said that I just wanted to get you out here alone?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’d say that we’re above using cheap lines like that,” he says, bumping Bruce’s shoulder with his as he too surveys the city. “It’s a nice night out.”

“It is,” Bruce answers. There’s a bit of wistfulness to his voice, and if Tony didn’t know him better, he’d leave the observation at that. But there’s something else, underneath it all, and ain’t that a kick in the head? He wonders if he’s telegraphing the same things to Bruce. If, after all these years, they still know each other.

Bruce turns to Tony, a soft smile forming on his lips as Tony mirrors his movement. “So?” he says, running his hand down the lapel of Tony’s jacket.

“So,” Tony repeats, taking a step forward.

“You’re sure you don’t have a date tonight?” Bruce asks, fingers ghosting over the thin fabric above the arc reactor in Tony’s chest.

Tony shakes his head. “No.”

Bruce leans closer, his breath sending tingles down Tony’s spine. “Because tall, blonde, and buff over there seems to think otherwise,” he whispers.

Tony looks up with a start and turns to where Bruce has cocked his head. True enough, there’s Steve, and Tony catches the exact moment when his expression shifts from irritation to surprise.

Steve’s gaze meets his, and it should be comical, the way he looks like a deer in the headlights as he registers Tony’s gaze, but Tony’s too perplexed by that look Steve was giving Bruce to laugh.

Bruce, however, _chortles_.

At this, Steve turns abruptly and makes his way back inside.

A strange feeling roils in Tony’s belly, and he takes a step forward, intent on following after Steve. He catches himself and looks back at Bruce.

“Go on,” Bruce says. “I don’t think I can take him in a fight, anyway.”

“What do you mean you—“ Tony stops as realization dawns on him. “You!”

“He’s been staring at you half the night,” Bruce says, “Figured you both needed a push in the right direction.”

“Bruce Wayne I am forty years old. I don’t need you meddling—” Tony begins, upset at the feeling of his face heating with embarrassment.

Bruce shushes him, rests his hand on Tony’s back and begins to push him toward the door. “Just go, Tony,” he says.

So Tony does.

Just as the door to the balcony is about to close, Bruce yells after him: “And if it doesn’t work out, you have my number!”

Tony rolls his eyes and walks past all the onlookers. If he didn’t know better he’d think Bruce wasn’t just teasing him. But he does know, even if only a little bit, that this is all an act. They’re both too old to be playing each other like this and meaning it.

Tony finds Steve standing by the bar, two empty glasses in front of him and his phone screen lighting up his face. He’s looking intently at whatever’s on his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.

“Nothing’s gonna happen if you don’t move your fingers,” Tony says, waggling his eyebrows a little as Steve looks up at him.

Steve smiles, or tries to: his eyebrows raise and his lips are tight as they curl up.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Steve clears his throat. “Well. I’m going to go get a glass of water,” he says.

Tony nods pointedly at the glass in Steve’s hand, still half-full.

Steve’s smile tightens (and Tony didn’t think that would be possible), but then Tony’s gaze is drawn back to Steve’s hand when he hears a strange crunching sound. The next thing he knows, the glass is in fragments on the floor, the water pooled around it making everything glimmer.

“Oh,” Steve says, very softly, and then once again leaves Tony.

Tony turns to the onlookers, sheepish smile on his face, before he makes his own exit.

* * *

The lobby of the hotel is mercifully empty at this hour, and Tony situates himself a few seats away from the exit. There are a few paps still around, sure, but he knows them and they know him and there isn’t really anything newsworthy anymore about Tony Stark hunkering down in a hotel lobby. Still, there’s the cursory stolen shot. Tony doesn’t even flip them off this time.

He’s typing out his message to Happy about swinging ‘round when he hears familiar laughter—

And there’s Bruce Wayne, his arm around the waist of the Tony the oil heiress he was speaking to earlier. At this, the photographers take notice and stand, crowding around them for what’ll inevitably be another tired headline about who Bruce is bringing home.

Still, Bruce manages to catch Tony’s eye, and Tony knows—he knows how it goes. There’s a look Bruce gives him that won’t telegraph the same emotion in photos, a small turn down his lips: _What happened?_

Tony sighs, shrugs, and turns back to his phone. Happy’s ETA is in two minutes, and his phone buzzes again with a message from Bruce: _Ok so maybe i can take him. U need me to?_ A small smile forms on Tony’s lips, affection warming him up from the inside.

_Nah. can fight my own battles now. I am iron man, u know_

Bruce replies almost immediately, which makes Tony feel a little guilty for the woman ostensibly sharing the back seat with Bruce.

_You’ll always be Tony to me._

Tony’s about to let his sentimentality get the best of him when he feels a presence by his side. He glances over and sees Steve, hands in his pockets, looking at the decor of the lobby like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Annoyance surges inside Tony so quickly that he suddenly has half a mind to ask Bruce to swing back and pick him up, maybe the three of them can have fun and Steve can go fuck himself—but, as if on cue, Happy arrives.

Tony closes his eyes and counts to ten. He’s never had to do this before, hold himself back, keep quiet, but he knows he has to this time. When Tony finally opens his eyes he’s marginally calmer, but the feeling evaporates at the sight of Steve holding the door open for him.

“I can do it myself,” he snaps, and for a second he and Steve share a shocked silence at his tone. Then Tony gets inside the car and slams the door shut, and turns to look out the window once Steve settles in beside him.

They’re quiet in the car, something jangly playing on the radio as they move through traffic. Tony focuses his attention on every single shop sign they pass.

He startles when he feels Steve’s hand on his knee, and Tony turns as Steve reaches out to clasp Tony’s hand in his. He hadn’t noticed that Steve had put the privacy screen up, and he lets out a breath he’d sucked in when he’s looked to check—and isn’t it absolutely insane that now he’s the one worried about who’ll see?

Tony’s thoughts snap back to Steve when he tightens his grip on Tony’s hand, as if asking for his attention. He looks up at Steve, who looks at him so earnestly it makes Tony want to scream, makes him want to tear out his hair, because he looks so _fond_.

Steve smiles, small and shy, then bites his lip, and Tony watches all of these emotions cross Steve’s face hungrily, the feeling informed by a strange fear that tomorrow he might not be allowed to do this. Maybe that’s it—he’s afraid of losing whatever tenuous hold he has on Steve, is afraid of Steve tiring of him, the way everyone has. The way they always will.

Steve stops chewing on his lip and it’s pretty and pink now, so Tony can’t help but stare. The shy smile returns to Steve’s lips, and he tugs at Tony’s hand, pulling him closer.

Tony follows, and lets out a small sigh when Steve finally kisses him.

Steve deepens the kiss almost immediately, hand sliding up Tony’s thigh then gripping his hip, and next thing Tony knows he’s on Steve’s lap, grinding down on him, and god he’s never been so thankful to have top of the line as his standard, because this car’s got to have some kind of noise cancelling feature or _something_ and then Steve grinds up against him, their cocks sliding together through their pants, and Tony thinks, half-hysterically, _is a car really top of the line if there’s no lube compartment?_

Tony’s so busy kissing Steve that he doesn’t register the car slowing down, but apparently Steve does, because all of the sudden he’s deposited back to his side of the seat, tie only a little askew.

Steve’s in the middle of tucking his shirt back into his pants when Happy knocks on the screen, sounding a bit tentative when he says, “you alright back there boss?”

“All good,” Tony croaks, throwing another cursory glance back at Steve, who pulls angrily at his bowtie and stuffs it into his pocket as he exits the car. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a frown that starts in his eyebrows and ends at the pinch of his lips.

Ask anyone and he’d probably just told Tony off; they’d probably just shouted at each other in the back of the car.

“Thanks, Happy,” Tony says, waving as he walks backward towards the elevator. It’s a good thing his pants are dark, and Steve keeps his head down as they walk toward the elevator.

They’re so silent, Tony fights back the urge to whistle as they wait for the elevator.

Once they’re inside the elevator, though, all bets are off; Steve pushes him flush against the wall and kisses him hungrily, again, as if no time had passed between them.

Tony’s about to shove his hand down Steve’s pants when the door dings open. Steve straightens up, and Tony’s about to kiss him again, keep things going into his penthouse, except—it’s not his penthouse.

It’s Steve’s floor.

Tony’s stomach sinks with understanding, and he tries valiantly not to slouch into himself. How could this be happening? Why was Steve doing this? No one had seen them, and no one would know if Steve spent a few more hours with him in the penthouse; god knows they’ve done it before.

Steve leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Tony’s cheek. “Good night, Tony,” he says, and there’s a strange, sad look in his eye that makes Tony grab Steve’s hand.

Steve looks down at Tony’s fist. He doesn’t say anything. So Tony lets go, swallows down all his questions as he lets the doors slide shut, gaze never leaving the sight of Steve’s retreating back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again to emily and flame for beta-ing this for me, and to rise for being such a source of support!!
> 
> and thank you all for reading and commenting - i'm so overwhelmed by the response to this fic and it means a lot that you all like it :) (also, they will get their shit together, i promise.)

Once the doors of the elevator slide shut, Tony finally lets himself slam a fist onto the metal. He growls, the anger finally tumbling out of him and he takes it out on himself—rips off his pants, almost ruins his shirt when he strips it off, leaving a pile of clothes behind him as he stomps to bed.

He throws off the covers to his bed and is about to lie down when he hears two tentative knocks on his door. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Tony swears, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he walks back to the door. “What the fuck is the emergency?” he yells, as he yanks it open.

He deflates immediately when he sees who it is.

Steve is standing in front of him, looking chastened. “I needed some help with the cufflinks, they’re harder to take off than they were to put on,” he says. “But it’s fine, I’ll just—” he continues, already taking a step away.

Tony reaches out and grabs him by the wrist, more forcefully than he means to and he can tell it takes Steve by surprise. He turns Steve’s palm up as he begins unfastening the link. At each touch of his fingers against the skin of Steve’s wrist, the irritation swirling in his gut fades. Then he realizes that they’re familiar; he’s pretty sure he’s seen Steve wear these before, and knows that Steve knows how to take them off.

“Maybe next time just invite me in,” Tony teases, smiling up a little at Steve as he takes Steve’s other wrist in his hands.

Steve huffs out a laugh, flushing slightly. He reaches up and rubs Tony’s cheek with his thumb. “I just needed to cool off,” he admits.

Tony takes a breath to swallow down his surprise, and then takes another moment to calm down as he slips the two metal links into Steve’s pocket. “What do you mean?” he asks, and here he is again, acting dumber than he is, and at this point he’s pretty sure everyone knows: he’s plenty stupid.

Steve shakes his head in response, then leans closer to press a soft kiss to Tony’s lips. It starts chaste, then Steve tilts his head to the side and their lips glide together, and something like a spark thrums through Tony’s body as he parts his lips open, deepening the kiss.

“Are you sleepy?” Steve asks, his voice just above a whisper.

“No,” Tony says, then clears his throat. “No, I’m up.”

“Oh?” Steve smirks, hand sliding down Tony’s stomach to stop just above his cock.

Tony laughs, high and thready. “Quite,” he says, sounding more breathless and needy than he means to—it’s just that banter is so easy between them when it’s just them and Tony so badly wants it to be just them. Something about tonight says Steve may feel the same. Tony’s too aroused to look at it closely, already intoxicated by having Steve this near.

“I want you,” Steve groans, pulling Tony’s hips against his and grinding against him.

“Please,” Tony says, beginning to unbutton Steve’s shirt as Steve touches him everywhere and kisses down his neck. Tony wants to ask some follow up questions, too. Things like: _just now or just every few nights and sometimes in the afternoon when no one’s around or—?_

They collapse on the couch in a tangle of limbs and Steve pushes himself off Tony to give him the most astoundingly arousing view of Steve ripping off his shirt.

A button lands right on top of the reactor in Tony's chest and bounces off the glass.

For a moment, they’re silent—then they burst out into laughter. Steve dives back in, kissing Tony’s giggles away, and Tony can’t stop smiling.

“What?” Steve asks, pulling away again, this time to stand up and remove his pants.

“Nothing,” Tony says, grabbing Steve’s wrist and pulling him back—he wants to touch all of him, somehow every time they do this still feels like the first time, like all of Steve’s nakedness is new. 

Steve’s hands are calloused and warm, sliding all over Tony’s body, and then he takes both of their cocks together in his hand and Tony nearly shouts at how good it feels—the silken heat of Steve’s cock against his, of their slick mixing together makes Tony’s head spin.

Steve kisses his shoulder, his neck, the patch of skin behind his ear, until finally he kisses Tony on the mouth, deep and searing, and all Tony can do is moan and writhe under all the attention.

“I want you,” Steve growls, his lips brushing against Tony’s. He moves down to lick and bite Tony’s neck: “I want you,” he says again, his hand pumping up and down and Tony feels wild, untethered, and Steve keeps repeating the same line: _I want you I want you I want you_.

Tony wants to scream, _have me, have me, have all of me,_ but at the same time, _take what you want and go, stop coming back for seconds, can’t you see? Can’t you see the effect you have on me?_

Steve comes first—his eyes squeeze shut and he groans, low and slow. Tony watches as Steve comes, his hand still wrapped around their cocks, his hips stuttering as he paints their stomachs with his spend.

Tony pulls him in and kisses him, and Steve barely misses a beat before taking Tony’s cock back in his hand, using his come as lube. Tony moans at the thought, and Steve moves so their cheeks are pressed together—Tony feels himself breathing in time with Steve, and he feels like he's about to wind up and burst. 

Steve tightens his fist around Tony’s cock, and Tony sees stars; he doesn’t even realize he’s speaking until Steve grunts at his encouragements: _just like that, yes, just like that, fuck, Steve, Steve, Steve._

Steve groans, kisses down Tony’s cheek and begins to suck and kiss his neck again, and the pain sends a shiver down Tony’s spine.

Tony grabs a fistful of Steve's hair, holding him in place. “Harder,” he grinds out, his throat feels raw, Steve’s hand is so large and Tony feels enveloped, overwhelmed by Steve, on top of him, holding him, _marking him_. At the realization, Tony’s body seizes up and for a few blissful seconds there is nothing else; just Steve, holding him, biting on the soft skin of his neck.

Once the aftershocks subside, Steve collapses on top of Tony, sending the air whooshing out of both of them.

“Damn, Rogers,” Tony says, petting Steve’s hair as he tries to catch his breath. Thankfully, Steve moves, stands, and pads towards Tony’s bathroom, barefoot and bare-assed, and Tony can’t help but feel a little lovesick at the sight.

Steve cleans them up and very nearly picks Tony up to make space for him on the couch. It’s a tight fit, and Tony smiles lazily down at Steve, who responds by ducking his head and hiding his own smile in Tony’s shoulder.

Tony laughs softly and turns to press a kiss to Steve’s head. It’s in these moments when he’s weakest; when he imagines how it would feel to be able to do this all the time, anywhere. He presses another kiss to Steve’s forehead and sighs.

Steve kisses the little dip just above Tony’s collarbone, and Tony tilts his head back, giving Steve more access. Tony’s eyes flutter shut as Steve continues to kiss him, and he snaps out of his haze of pleasure when Steve stops.

“Oh,” Steve says, touching two fingers to Tony’s neck.

From the touch alone, Tony can tell that there’s a small bruise there. “I don’t mind,” he says.

“Good,” Steve says, grinning devilishly at him. Tony grins back, and after a moment, Steve’s smile softens.

There’s a name for that look, Tony thinks. He wants to say the word now. Please, someone say it first, maybe JARVIS can start—

Steve leans back in and presses another kiss to Tony’s neck, a small sigh escaping his lips as he settles in, tucking his head under Tony’s.

Tony drapes his arm over Steve’s shoulder and closes his eyes. He falls asleep with Steve’s hand on his chest, with his lips against Tony’s neck.

* * *

Tony wakes up with a crick in his neck and a blanket draped over him.

He isn’t surprised.

Maybe, he thinks, as he spits toothpaste into the sink, maybe he’s used to it.

In the shower his hand skates over his ribs, and he thinks of Steve’s hands there. When he’s shaving, he tilts his chin up, sees the marks Steve has left, and Tony very nearly throws his razor against the mirror as a smile blooms on his lips.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe it’ll be different.

Tony can smell breakfast before he sees it, and Steve is standing by the stove.

“Where’re the kids?” Tony asks, slipping behind Steve to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Steve turns to Tony and takes a step forward. He takes Tony’s cup and sets it down on the counter before he pushes Tony against the wall and kisses him, languid and open, and Tony feels so dizzy with the sudden spike of arousal that he has to prop himself up with a hand against the wall.

“Market day,” Steve says, as he pulls away. He smiles down at Tony, and presses a quick kiss on Tony’s cheek.

“What?” Tony takes a moment to reorient himself and takes a deep breath, then a sip of coffee. “Oh.” Tony says, his brain finally clicking into place. “They’re at the market.”

“Yes,” Steve says, laughing a little. “Good morning, sweetheart.”

Tony bites his lip at the nickname, and sneaks a glance at Steve to check if he meant to say it.

Steve’s flushed pink and staring very intently at the bacon sizzling in the pan.

Tony laughs at the sight, then leans close to kiss Steve on the cheek. He settles down on the table and begins to go through his emails, and next thing he knows he has a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him.

Steve sits beside him and tucks in without a word, and as he’s polishing off his toast he rests his arm on the back of Tony’s chair. Tony relaxes immediately into Steve’s touch, and Steve seems to follow suit; he strokes absently at the bit of exposed skin of Tony’s neck and shoulder, and Tony stops himself from shuddering each time Steve’s fingers graze the bruises he’s left.

The words in his tablet are beginning to swim in front of him, and it’s not for lack of caffeine; Tony realizes like a shot to the heart that this is what he’s been missing. Slow mornings like this, the casual intimacy. Steve, by his side. It feels impossibly perfect.

As it’s been with Tony’s luck, this is when the rest of the team arrives.

Tony barely registers any movement and all of the sudden, Steve is nearly a foot away from him, trying and failing to hide how alert he is now that they’re in the presence of others.

Tony tries his best not to physically recoil at the sudden emptiness. (So maybe he isn’t used to it.)

Thor dumps fresh produce on the counter and Natasha picks up an apple. She takes a bite as she surveys them both, then her gaze zeroes in on its target: “Got lucky last night, Stark?” she asks, a teasing smirk on her lips.

Tony turns to Steve, a small flame of hope burning inside him—maybe this is when it happens. Maybe, this is when Steve grins and says, _yeah, he did,_ and everyone will blink and realization will come and then, and then, and then.

Time slows down as Tony waits, then it skitters to a halt as Steve looks away, looks around, as if looking for an answer. Tony thinks it’s a bit concerning, all these tells. Then, just as quickly, he thinks that it’s probably more concerning that he can tell at all.

Time resumes its normal pace, and Tony turns back to Natasha. “You could call it luck,” he says, then stands. He dumps his plate into the sink, takes his cup of coffee and leaves without a backward glance.

He should’ve known better.

Steve catches up to Tony at the elevator, but Tony holds a hand up, and Steve—Steve stops, eyes glued on Tony’s as the doors slide shut.

Tony can’t wrench his eyes away. For a fledgling moment, he wonders if this is it. He wants to throw the doors back open, wants to tug Steve inside and ask, _what is it that you really want?_

But he doesn’t. Instead, he finds something in the workshop he can destroy and put back together in a way that makes sense.

* * *

Tony successfully avoids Steve for the rest of the day, but he knows as well that he’s kidding himself: Steve likely didn’t want to see him, either. It’s not like anything would ever get in the way of Steve Rogers.

It’s almost daybreak when Tony stumbles into the penthouse on the last dregs of his energy. He yawns, toes off his shoes, slips off his pants, and throws himself on the mess of blankets and pillows on his bed.

Someone other than himself yelps.

“Tony?” Steve groans from under Tony’s blanket.

“What?” Tony nearly shouts. “J—lights,” he says, and then he sees for himself: Steve in his bed, under his covers, shirtless, sleepy, bathed in the soft yellow glow of the dimmed lights.

“You should learn to lock your door,” Steve smirks. It’s undercut by the flush on his cheeks, and he looks unbearably handsome, and Tony wants so badly to hate him and there are too many thoughts that rush through Tony’s mind that for a second, he’s silent.

He touches Steve’s face, needing to remind himself that he’s not making this up, that he’s not lying in the workshop with a concussion and that his brain decided to conjure this as a balm. Steve’s eyes flutter shut and he leans into Tony’s touch, turns his head a little so Tony’s palm cups his cheek.

“You’re the only one who comes up here and has access,” Tony says, and he meant for that to be a secret, but he’s entranced by the sight in front of him, by how soft Steve looks, how right and correct it feels to be coming back up here and finding Steve waiting for him.

Steve seems startled by Tony’s admission, and he blinks up at Tony. “I—” he starts, then sits up. He doesn’t reveal the rest of his thought, instead takes Tony’s face in his hands and pulls him in for a kiss.

Tony, fool that he is, kisses back. He wants this so badly that any opportunity to have Steve feels worth taking. Steve’s hands slide under Tony’s shirt, and they part just for Steve to slip it off him.

They end up on their sides, legs tangled up in the sheets as they keep kissing, keep mapping each others bodies with their hands, pressing closer and closer until there isn’t any part of them that isn’t touching.

“You should get some sleep,” Steve says, breathless after however long they’ve been kissing. The sun’s rising now, and the lights switched off as the first rays of light began to illuminate the room.

Tony murmurs assent, and Steve tucks himself against Tony in a gesture that’s too resonant from last night’s that it’s an unpleasant reminder of what happened next. Tony shifts, closes his eyes, tries to will himself to sleep rather than think more of what happened earlier that day. Another rebuff, another missed opportunity, another reminder that what’s going on between them is strictly between them.

In a brief moment of anger, Tony resolves that if he wakes up alone one more time, then that’s it.

He knows as well that he’s kidding himself. It’s not like Steve would stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> subscribe if you want to receive updates on when i post the last two chapters!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been really overwhelmed by the response this fic has gotten and I love you all so, so dearly!!! But also I want to be clear that I love love love Steve, and it is not at all my intention to paint him as an asshole. Just someone who isn’t so great at communicating (and, well—neither is Tony. It’s just that I’m choosing to write from Tony’s POV for this).
> 
> also, again, thank you to rise and emily for helping me with this. ❤️
> 
> I have other things to work on first, but I am considering writing a sequel / remix of this, which is from Steve’s POV. Hehe. He’s not an asshole, okay!! They’re both just idiots.

Tony’s been spending the last few days away from Steve. He’s revoked access to the penthouse, but it’s not like he’s been up there much either, only to get a change of clothes. He can’t stand the sight of his bed, can’t bear to look at the couch, everything an awful reminder of everything.

Maybe that’s why Steve never let Tony into his apartment. The lucky bastard’s probably sleeping like a baby in his room, free of marked memories.

It’s almost a week later when they all manage to get together for dinner—Bruce had wrangled Tony up and out of the workshop with the promise of chicken curry—and the only seat left has Tony sitting across Steve. He tries valiantly not to care, instead heaping praises about the food and asking Thor about Jane, all the while being hyper aware of how Steve’s gaze is trained on him.

It gets annoying. An irrational part of Tony wants to snap, _just take a fucking picture, it’ll last longer_ , but he keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore.

But it’s Clint who brings it up. “Something on Tony’s face?” Clint asks, because he’s an idiot.

Tony takes a big bite of rice and curry and chews very, very slowly. He makes a questioning sound in response, but diverts his attention to Clint when he does.

“Oh, uh. No,” Steve says, ducking his head down and pushing food around his plate.

Clint looks at Tony, confused and expecting Tony to have an answer.

Tony shrugs in response, and the conversation shifts back to Thor, regaling them with another one of his adventures.

Under the table, he feels a foot nudge his. Tony looks up at Steve on reflex, and is rewarded by a small smile on Steve’s lips—a secret smile, a slight question in the way his eyebrows are raised.

Tony tamps down hard on the way his heart swells at the look Steve is giving him. He draws his foot back and watches the smile fall from Steve’s face with sick, twisted satisfaction at his petty revenge that he’s the one who rebuffs Steve, now.

* * *

Tony’s staring up at schematics when he hears the workshop doors slide open. On instinct, he knows it’s Steve: maybe it’s the way Steve walks into a room and shifts the air with his presence. Maybe it’s the way Steve smells—that even from however many feet away, Tony can place the scent of his aftershave.

Maybe it’s that Tony hasn’t locked him out from here, the one other place that is his own. That he’d forgotten. (Had he? Or had he kept it unlocked on purpose? He can’t say. Won’t say. He said he was with this, and so he's done. No more thinking.)

Tony doesn’t turn to look, but can see in his periphery that Steve is standing beside him now, looking at Tony. After a moment, Steve turns away and looks up at the holograms.

Steve clears his throat before he speaks, which means he’s nervous. Somehow, this is heartening to Tony.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks. His eyes are still trained towards the floating blue schematics.

Tony sneaks a glance, because he’s a weak man who’s always liked the way Steve smiles at the things Tony creates. Then he looks back up at the holograms and swallows before answering.

“Thinking,” Tony says, gesturing to the schematics blown up in front of him. It feels like déjà vu; how long ago was it when Steve had stepped in, wrapped his arms around Tony’s waist, kissed the back of Tony’s neck?

Long enough, apparently, for Tony to feel the long tendrils of yearning unfurl inside him. He’s missed Steve so much, his voice, his hands.

Steve sighs, turns to look back at Tony, angles his body so that his hips rest against the table. He’s so close, but it’s not close enough—never close enough, even in the times that Tony held his face and he could count the freckles on Steve’s cheeks.

It’s silly, he’s right here, but Tony won’t let himself reach out and touch him. He can’t. He shouldn’t.

(Won’t, can’t, shouldn’t. Not, not, not. That’s a Boolean operator for exclusion, removal, helps weed out the truths from the false.)

Steve takes a step closer toward Tony, and Tony reflexively takes a step back.

Tony lets out a short breath, and watches as Steve’s body goes taut.

Steve looks up at Tony, then looks away. He’s frowning, but it’s like he’s trying to hide it. Still, Tony sees it all. Sees the way Steve takes another moment, breathes in slowly.

“What did I do?” Steve asks, quietly. His eyes flick up to glance at Tony as if to make sure he’s heard, and then he looks back down on the floor.

Tony _yearns_ to touch him, to kiss that look off his face.

“Nothing,” he says, instead. And isn’t that the problem?

Steve’s hands curl into a fist. Tony’s dreamt of that fist, wrapped around his tie, his forearm, his cock. In a wild moment of clarity, he realizes: who was he to think he could make it work this time, anyway? After all his past failures—isn’t he the common denominator?

“Thor asked why we were fighting,” Steve grinds out. His voice is strained and monotone.

Tony watches as Steve slowly uncurls his fist and lays his palm flat on the table.

“We’re not.” Tony says.

“We’re not?” Steve sounds surprised by this, and he turns quickly to up to look at Tony.

For a brief moment Tony feels like he’s dreaming—is that hope, in Steve’s eyes? Or just the way they catch the light?

“You think we are?” Tony asks, wilfully obtuse but at the same time, a bit surprised. This isn't a fight. At least, not a fight he’s ever had. 

Steve takes a breath, bites down on his lip. He takes another breath, and Tony watches, fascinated, as Steve’s jaw clenches. He’s done it now, then, pissed Steve off. A wild, uninhibited part of him thrills at this realization. _Good. Good. Now you know._

Steve looks at Tony, searching his face for answers Tony won’t telegraph. “I don’t know, I haven't—what is going on?” he asks, he rubs angrily at the back of his head.

“Nothing,” Tony says. because it’s true. “Nothing’s going on.” And this is the chance, this is the chance for Steve to finally say, _something is going on, Tony_. _Something’s been going on for a long time. I want something to keep going on._

Steve looks away, then he sighs. The accurate word, Tony thinks, is deflates.

“Nothing,” he repeats. “Okay.”

Tony knows this is what he wanted to hear, at least half of him. Message clear, then. Tony turns back to the hologram, finally, completely, totally resolute. Nothing, then. Nothing at all. Maybe it was never anything to begin with. Maybe Steve had never meant there to be anything and Tony had read all the signs wrong. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. The word echoes around Tony’s mind.

“Tony, I—” Steve starts, then falters.

Tony slams his hands down on the table, angry at everything, at Steve specifically, just, all of it. Let it be nothing.

“It’s nothing!” he snaps, whirling around to stare Steve down.

Steve’s standing so close to him that a weaker man would’ve leaned close and stolen a kiss, taken it all back, _let it be something. Let’s let it be something together, now, please,_ but Tony’s tired of this song and dance. It’s all become very clear.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it. He raises his eyes to look at Tony, and foolish men have fallen for less, and for a while, Tony let himself be foolish. Steve blinks, nods almost to himself, then leaves.

Tony watches him go. He should feel good. Any second now, he will.

* * *

Tony’s waiting in the lobby of the Tower, tapping his foot against the marble. He hasn’t been this excited to go to a charity ball in a while. (Okay, fine, maybe excited was an overly _charitable_ use of the word, but he was eager to leave. For no particular reason, really. _Really_.)

He fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket and nearly calls—when the elevator doors slide open.

“Tony.”

Tony freezes up at the sound of Steve’s voice. Why was he here? Why was he speaking to him? They’d barely said two words to one another in the days that followed their discussion in the workshop. (And discussion is an overly charitable use of the word.)

He turns his head and feels his breath catch in his throat. Steve is in a suit—a new one. A velvet blue jacket. It’s awful, how in spite of the fluorescent light of the Tower lobby, it still brings out the color of Steve’s eyes.

Tony can’t will himself to speak. Funny how these firsts caused by Steve used to be novel, interesting. Now it just makes Tony feel—it makes him feel.

“I can come with you,” Steve says, his voice soft, unassuming, directly counter to what he’s saying. He doesn’t look at Tony as he says it, instead adjusts his cuffs, pulls them out from under his coat.

(A few days earlier Tony had said, no need for anyone to come with me. I have a date. Tony had kept his eyes on Natasha as he spoke, acted as if he had blinders and didn’t notice how Steve reacted on purpose.)

“I don’t need you to,” Tony says, finally finding enough willpower to turn away.

“I’d like to,” Steve says.

 _Oh, now you do._ Tony thinks, irritably. He stays silent, doesn’t turn as he hears Steve’s shoes tap against the marble, doesn’t meet Steve’s eyes when he feels Steve standing beside him.

Steve takes a deep breath. “I’d really like to,” he says again.

Inside him, Tony feels something shatter. He’d like that, too. Even after all of this. It’s awful, how much he’s like for Steve to take his hand, lead him to the door, hail a taxi just for the pedestrian novelty of it—that way, finally, someone would know: Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, holding hands and hailing a cab. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, together, finally,. despite everything.

Tony stays silent, thinking of the words to say. There’s always that one word, the one he’s avoided so skillfully. Then there’s the questions, _why, why, why_. Tony opens his mouth, ready to just turn off the filter for once in his life—

Then, a black car pulls up on the curb. Tony doesn’t have to look to recognize the car, can tell from the purr of the engine alone that it’s Bruce’s murcielago.

Steve turns back to meet Tony’s eyes.

Tony offers up a small smile, half apologetic, half smug.

“Don’t wait up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to yell at me in the comments or on tumblr, @firebrands.


	7. Chapter 7

The press has a conniption when Bruce opens the door of his car and Tony steps out of the passenger seat. They haven’t arrived together for a party in years, and Bruce looks very dapper, Tony is sure he looks even better, and it’s very easy to fall into a standard pattern. They smile and wave, and Bruce tosses the keys to the valet.

As they walk up the steps, they stop to pose for photos at the entrance of the Met. Bruce wraps an arm around Tony’s waist, holds him close. A reporter shouts over the din of shutters snapping: “Are you each other’s dates?”

“Why must we come with dates?” Bruce says, smirk on his lips. “Is it not enough to arrive at all?”

Tony laughs, ducks his head close to Bruce’s ear and whispers to him: “You’re the worst.”

“So what am I tonight, bait or a rebound?” Bruce had asked in the car.

“How about a friend, you asshole?” Tony laughed, shoving Bruce’s shoulder.

“How _boring_ ,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes.

“Somehow I think you’ll manage,” Tony said, settling into his seat and fiddling with Bruce’s selection of music. He briefly considers taking a nap, but he’s still too wired from the indeterminate number of coffees he’s had, all to make up for the indeterminate number of hours he hasn’t slept.

The press goes a little wild at Bruce’s possessive grip, and Tony hams it up, rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder for another photo before they’re ushered inside.

“Friendly enough?” Bruce teases, picking up two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handing one to Tony.

“One could argue that you were too friendly,” Tony says, rolling his eyes again. He figures he’ll be doing that a lot tonight, if Bruce keeps this insufferable flirt persona up.

They make a round of greeting their standard socialite circle, stopping occasionally to admire the art. It’s in those pockets of silence that Tony’s mind drifts back to someone he knows would appreciate it more.

Tony probably looks pensive, which is probably why Bruce elbows him softly in the ribs and says, “You’d tell me, right?”

“Tell you what?” Tony asks, taking a step away from Bruce and his elbows.

“If you needed me to be bait or a rebound.”

“Good lord Bruce, what are we, fifteen? I don’t need your help with my love life.”

“Oh, sure, because you’ve had such a stellar history.”

“Oh and you do? Fuck off.”

Bruce laughs at this, takes Tony’s hand and rests it in the crook of his elbow, and steers him away from the Magritte they’d spent too much time standing in front of. It’s one of his famous ones; a man and woman with veils draped over their faces, kissing. _The Lovers._

“So what happened between you two?” Bruce asks, downing his glass and holding his hand outwards, waiting for a tray to appear under it.

“Was I wrong to expect anything more than gossip from you?” Tony asks, taking a sip of his tiny espresso, prepared especially for him.

Now it’s Bruce’s turn to roll his eyes. “Concern, Tony. Ever heard of it?”

“Phrase your concern in a tone less suited to a fishwife, then.”

“Fine,” Bruce says sarcastically. “Do you love him?”

“This a scoop for page six? Jesus, Bruce. Why do you care?”

“Because you’ve been moping this entire evening.”

“And here I was thinking I was having a good time. Thanks for illuminating me on how I really feel,” Tony snaps, tugging his hand away from Bruce’s elbow.

Bruce makes an exasperated noise and catches Tony’s wrist as Tony turns away. “God, Tony. I’m sorry.”

Tony wrenches his wrist free and sighs, the fight going out of him all at once. “It’s fine.” He downs the rest of his coffee and a waiter appears at his side, ready to take the cup. The man’s mouth opens, about to ask if Tony wants more, but Tony cuts him off with a shake of his head. He feels tired. Not just from the lack of sleep, but from everything else; long hours in the workshop, making conversation with the other attendees of the fundraiser, the surprise of seeing Steve in the lobby earlier that night—pretending, pretending, pretending.

Maybe, he thinks, as Bruce once again places Tony’s hand on the crook of his elbow, it’s time to get some rest. He recognizes these signs best, when the fight goes out of him, when he’s tired himself out through sheer force of will. Maybe tonight his brain can finally shut down for a few hours. Hopefully.

He’s tired of missing Steve most of all, missing the casual banter they shared, the way Steve would look at him. And why did loving someone have to render you so helpless against it? If Bruce had continued his line of questioning, if he’d ask, well—why? Tony wouldn’t be able to answer. It’s—it’s a feeling in your gut. Attraction, affection, the small pockets of acceptance that only Steve could ever telegraph.

But it’s done now. Tony’s done with that now, and he’s tired. He’s tired of everything. He never wants to feel anything ever again.

Tony picks up a glass of champagne and drinks it in one gulp. Bruce makes a face.

Eventually they stop and stand in front of another Magritte: a self portrait of him painting a bird. The work is called _La Clairvoyance_. Tony snorts when he reads it.

“What?” Bruce asks, eyes trained on the canvas.

“Some futurist,” Tony murmurs.

Bruce hums in response, then says, “Sometimes we focus too much on the possibilities instead of seeing what’s right in front of us.”

Tony makes a face. “That’s not what this painting is about.”

“You know sometimes Tony, you don’t know how to listen,” Bruce says, very casually, like he isn’t striking the core of Tony. “Or maybe you just don’t want to.”

“Or maybe,” Tony ventures, very sarcastically, “there’s nothing to listen to.”

“Oh?”

“I—I just.” Tony shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Bruce sighs. “Okay,” he says, giving Tony’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

A beat passes, then Tony says, “I pay attention.” He knows how petulant he sounds and doesn’t care.

“I know,” Bruce says softly. “But maybe not to the right things, sometimes.”

Tony makes an annoyed sound, but says nothing else. He _had_ asked him to stay, and he hadn’t. He’d done so much to convey everything he’d felt inside, and yet—and yet here he is, standing in front of a painting called _clairvoyance_ beside a man he wishes was Steve. _Some futurist_.

“Shouldn’t have asked you to come with me,” Tony whispers, because it’s a lot to admit, and it’s hard enough to admit anything, these days.

Bruce moves his hand to Tony’s other shoulder and pulls him into a half hug. “I’m glad you did.”

Tony rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. He knows he shouldn’t be too bold, can already hear a murmur go through the crowd, and as he pulls away, someone behind them tugs Bruce’s arm off of him.

“Tony.”

Tony whips around at the sound of Steve’s voice.

“Captain,” Bruce says, turning to Steve with a lopsided smile.

“Steve?” Tony nearly shouts, horror, confusion, and worry coloring his tone.

Steve blanches when Tony’s eyes meet his. Then he takes Tony’s hand. “Tony,” he says, “we need to go.”

“Why?” Tony asks, still completely bewildered.

“It’s an emergency,” Steve says, and Tony lets himself be led out into the lobby, dazed by the thought that of all the times he’d imagined walking in a party with Steve holding his hand, this image never came to mind. (Again: some futurist.)

Bruce follows after them, and as they exit the doors of the museum to the foyer, they’re immediately surrounded by photographers—much less than earlier in the night, but still waiting for a scoop.

Steve doesn’t stop, keeps dragging Tony towards the steps where Happy’s stationed at the curb; he can see the outline of Happy’s profile from the barely tinted window.

“Happy?” Tony says, because it must be some emergency for Pepper to lend him over. “Steve, what is _happening_.”

They stop a few feet from the car, and it’s well past midnight, so there’s barely anyone around anymore. Still, Steve looks around to make sure.

It makes Tony’s heart ache.

Steve’s still wearing the suit Tony had left him in, which means he was wearing the suit for hours, and there is an emergency, and his mind is going into hyperdrive.

Tony’s thoughts stutter to a halt when Steve turns back to Tony and takes both his hands in his. “Tony,” he says, and he’s beginning to breathe hard. He swallows, licks his lips, and Tony stares, confused as hell. He feels heat rise to his cheeks despite it all, though. He hasn’t touched Steve in weeks.

Steve takes a deep breath.

“I thought—” Steve takes another breath, tightens his grip on Tony’s hands. “I thought we had something, and then you said it was nothing.”

Tony can’t tell whose hands are trembling. Can’t tell if his palms are sweaty, or Steve’s. Tony tries to focus on his breathing.

“But I don’t think I can live with that, because—because. You must know.”

“What are you talking about?” Tony says. His brain is slowing down considerably, and it’s an uncomfortable feeling.

“Tony, I—”

“I thought there was an emergency.” Tony says, pulling his hands away from Steve’s. Everything feels tilted. The words are swimming in Tony’s mind, blinking and disappearing and rearranging—it does not compute. He adjusts his tie, just so he has something to do with his hands. No, this can’t be right. This doesn’t make sense. He turns to go back inside, where he can see Bruce holding an impromptu interview with the paparazzi.

Steve touches Tony gently on the forearm. When Tony turns to look at him, Steve says: “You can’t—you can’t not know,”

Steve takes a deep breath, eyes downcast, now. “You must know,” he whispers, almost to himself. He looks up at Tony again, eyes wide. “I love you,” Steve says, his voice almost breaking as he admits it.

The words hit Tony like an avalanche. If he were younger, he would have fainted. Maybe he’d be dramatic enough to have a heart attack. Alas, he has something in his chest that insists on its beating. Tony’s mind is all static.

“What?”

“I love you!” Steve says, more forcefully this time. There’s a sudden wildness to his eyes that Tony’s never seen, and at those words Tony feels heat rise from his belly; everything blurs out into red.

“No,” he says, voice shaking with barely contained anger, disbelief, humiliation. “No.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair and looks very close to tugging it out from the root. “Can we get in the car and talk about this at home, please?”

Home.

_Home._

Tony takes a step back. He feels anger swirl in his chest and spill out of his mouth. “What the _fuck_.” He spits out the expletive.

Steve bites his lip. “Tony, please, _please_ just get in the car,” he says, reaching out and taking Tony’s hand in his. He grips it tight for a moment, then relaxes. He turns his palm up, like he’s waiting for Tony to complete the movement.

Tony’s breath shudders out of him. This is something they do, something they’ve done so many times before; he remembers the gold light of the late morning sun, Steve’s smile, knowing, knowing deep in his bones that Steve had wanted him back. His own palm open: an offer, not a request.

They stand like that for so long, and it’s broken only when Steve whispers, “please.”

Tony can’t feel his hands. Can’t feel his face. This feels unreal. This feels like the world is about to collapse in on itself.

Nothing is making sense. Not a single damn thing makes sense—“I asked you to stay,” he whispers, half to himself, remembering everything all at once. He pulls his hand back and tucks it against his chest. Images are flashing in his mind like a sick slideshow of rejection: hands pulled away, checking hallways before entering the elevator, the space between them that only ever existed when someone could see.

Waking up alone, every morning, no matter how he fell asleep the night before.

“I asked you to stay,” Tony repeats, squeezing his eyes shut and then forcing them back open. Steve is still standing in front of him, his cheeks red, his eyes glistening. Tony shakes his head, as if trying to force something else to float up in front of him.

“Boss?”

Happy’s standing outside of the car, looking at them. “Are we leaving or should I park…?” He asks, trailing off and looking worried.

Tony huffs out a laugh, his brain somehow rewiring now that he realizes he’s in public, and he walks towards the car without looking at Steve.

He plunks down and his brain is frighteningly silent; all black and empty, like it’s rebooting. Half of him wants to sink into the chair and go to sleep. Maybe, he considers, when he wakes up it’ll make sense.

When the door opposite him clicks shut, Tony blinks.

The privacy window rolls up, and Tony’s phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text from Bruce.

_**You okay?** _

**_Sorry_ **

**_It’s okay. Are you okay?_ **

**_Yes_ **

**_Rooting for you, Tony. You let me know._ **

**_Nothing to root for_ **

**_Then you’re more of an idiot than I thought you were._ **

Tony turns off his phone and slips it back into his pocket. He’s wilfully not thinking, which is much more difficult for him than it is for any human being currently alive. Tony purses his lips.

No, no, no.

Beside him, Steve tugs off his jacket and begins rolling up his sleeves, like he’s getting ready for a brawl. He’s breathing very loudly through his nose.

“Are you going to say anything,” Steve says it like a statement. His eyes remain fixed on the privacy screen in front of them.

“What do you want me to say,” Tony says back. He feels blank, like a surprise safety measure has been enacted in his brain that allows for nothing, absolutely nothing.

Steve grunts. “All right.”

“No, Steve.” Tony asks, turning to Steve and frowning, emotion slipping out of the cracks of his mental lockdown. “What do you want me to say?”

“Apparently you have nothing to say,” Steve bristles.

“Oh, wow, okay,” Tony says flippantly. “Fine.”

Steve presses a button on his side, turning on the intercom. “Stop the car, Happy.”

“What are you—”

The car slows to a stop, and Steve opens the door.

“Steve—” Tony calls out, reaching over the seat to try and grab Steve’s hand.

Steve’s too quick. “Have a good evening, Tony,” he says, as he slams the door shut.

Tony’s waiting in the lobby of the Tower, tapping his foot against the marble. He’s been waiting for ten minutes, and he figures he can wait ten more. He thinks he needs all the time in the world to figure out what to say to Steve.

Tony begins to pace.

What if Steve had gone straight up to his room? Tony scrubs his face. When did he regress to fifteen years old? He paces around again for a while, weighing the options of going up to Steve’s room and waiting for his arrival here in the tower lobby (and slowly driving Gerry, the security guard on duty, insane with his fretting). At this, he figures he should head up.

At least that way Gerry won’t witness his heart being torn out of his chest.

Tony steps out onto the communal floor and finds Steve standing there, looking like he’d just arrived. There’s a bit of sweat on his brow.

“Stairs?” Tony asks.

Steve nods in affirmative, wipes the sweat off with the back of his hand, and walks to the kitchen.

Tony wants to ask, _how_ or _when_ but those would just be questions to fill the air. He follows Steve into the kitchen.

Still, against his better judgement, Tony asks: “When did you…” he trails off when Steve levels him with a look.

“We don’t need to speak any more than necessary.”

Tony sucks in a breath. This is a tone he’s grown unaccustomed to, and even when Steve was at his most upset, he’d still manage to say Tony’s name. On any other day, that sentence would have ended with his name. _We don’t need to speak more than necessary, Tony. We can try a different maneuver, Tony. You’re being difficult on purpose, Tony._ It’s like having the air sucked out of the room, realizing how much you miss the sound of your own name rolling off the lips of someone you—Tony balks. Of someone you care for. Someone you’ve fucked. Someone named Steve Rogers.

Tony bites his lip, then hazards: “Have you considered that maybe we do?”

Steve shakes his head as he fills up a glass of water. “I don’t think so.”

Tony nods, contemplating this, wondering why on earth Steve would have said those things only to cut him off so immediately.

A wild thought comes to mind: _La Clairvoyance_.

“Okay, can I ask why not?” Tony asks, and it’s horrifying, degrading, to have to beg for information like this, he’d much rather just crack Steve’s head open and dive in to search for answers.

“You really need me to say it,” Steve says, completely expressionless as he takes a sip of water.

For a second, Tony thinks he can hear glass cracking. Steve sets the glass down very deliberately.

Tony swallows. He feels nervous, like they’re on the cusp of something either awful or wonderful, but odds don’t seem to be in favor of a good outcome right now; there’s a storm brewing in the space between Steve’s brows.

“I don’t mind,” Steve starts. He picks up the glass again, then seems to consider it and puts it back down. “I don’t mind, about you and Bruce. But I think the decent thing would have been to tell me, rather than wait for me to make a fool of myself.”

Sometimes, Tony hates his brain. This is definitely one of those times: he hears distinctly, in his mind, the sound of a computer blue screening. Back in the day, when he hadn’t built his own laptops, he’d fiddled around too much and was rewarded by the sudden screen announcing doom, coupled with a strange electronic thud.

“Me.” Tony says, mouth falling agape as he pieces things together (and behind all this haze he thinks, _good lord, maybe it’s time I sent MIT back my diploma_ ), “and Bruce.”

Steve responds with a pinched smile, then takes a step towards the door.

“Wait,” Tony says, reaching out to grasp his wrist. “Wait a minute.”

“Please don’t do this,” Steve says, gingerly extricating his wrist from Tony’s grip.

“Steve, I need to explain—”

“No, you really, really don’t.” Tony only manages to sputter in response, and god, only with Steve is he so unable to get a word in edgewise. “I understand. This is what seeing someone is like, right?”

“No, no, god Steve, no it’s not.”

Steve sighs, exasperated. “Okay.”

“No, it’s not okay, jesus Steve—”

Tony stops when Natasha enters the kitchen, hair in a braid and a frown on her lips. “It’s late,” she says, as if anyone in this damn tower has any semblance of time.

Steve takes the opportunity to leave the kitchen, and as Tony moves to follow after him, Natasha catches him by the shoulder.

“Nat,” Tony says, warningly.

“Tony.”

They stare each other down for a moment.

“Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Tony’s heart is beating fast in his chest with the implication that she knows—she _knows_. How? When?

“Don’t be an asshole,” she says, letting go of his shoulder and opening up the fridge.

Tony makes a face. “ _Me?_ Have you considered that _he’s_ the asshole?”

“Have you considered that you’re the asshole, is a fair question to ask, too,” Natasha says, nonchalant.

“Who gave you the fucking right,” Tony shouts, slamming the door to the fridge shut and situating himself in front of Natasha. He knows that on any other night he never would have yelled at her like this, never have yelled at anyone, never have admitted that there was something for Steve to be an asshole about, but he’s over caffeinated and lacking sleep, and maybe he had a few too many glasses of champagne, and if Natasha knows then that means Pepper or Rhodey could’ve known, and none of this is fair.

Natasha regards him inscrutably. “Well, are you the asshole, Tony?”

“Why are you on his side?” Tony fumes.

Natasha snorts. “I resent that. I’m not on anyone’s side.”

“Sure seems like you are!” Tony scrubs his face and presses down on his eyelids. He’s exhausted.

Natasha sighs very dramatically, and takes Tony’s hand in hers. She strokes the inside of his palm in an effort to calm him down. “I’m not on Steve’s side, and I’m not on your side,” she repeats. “He didn’t tell me. He hasn’t told me anything.”

“And yet, here you are,” Tony sighs, sagging against the cool metal of the fridge.

“And so are you,” Natasha says, letting go of Tony’s hand.

They stare at each other for a moment.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tony admits, feeling very small and young all of the sudden.

“Neither does he,” Natasha says.

“That’s not very comforting,” Tony says, smiling ruefully up at her.

“I didn’t mean it to be.”

“This is some pep talk,” Tony laughs.

Natasha returns his smile. “Good thing it isn’t one.”

Tony throws Natasha a lazy salute as he shifts to leave. “Thanks,” he mumbles, then walks slowly toward the elevator, his heart thudding in his chest loudly, picking up speed.

Tony’s been standing in front of Steve’s door for so long that he’s lost all track of time. His phone in his pocket buzzes with an email alert from whoever, and he startles when he realizes it’s been almost an hour. Not that he’s come to any great ideas in that span of time; his mind is still buzzing.

He takes a deep breath, and for the nth time that night, he raises his fist to the door.

It lands with a small knock, but it feels too loud in Tony’s ears. He regrets it immediately, wants to take it back—wants to shout through the wood: _nevermind, I’ll come back next month, it’s okay, let’s just leave it._

The door swings open and Steve doesn’t look surprised to see him. His lips are set in a firm line.

They stand staring at each other for a few moments, and Tony takes a deep breath, readying himself and trusting his mind to make something sensible up.

“Good evening,” Steve says, beating him to it.

“Morning, actually,” Tony says immediately.

At this, a small smile tugs on Steve’s lips. Tony feels a small part of him relax.

Tony uses every ounce of courage left in him to ask, “Can we talk?”

At this, Steve’s mouth settles back into a frown. “What about?”

“I’m not with Bruce,” Tony blurts out, going straight to the point, half fearing that at any moment Steve will close the door.

Steve nods.

Tony has to say that he expected a bit more of a reaction. “Uh,” he says.

Steve nods again to himself, then looks at Tony expectantly, eyebrows raised as if he’s waiting for Tony to say something more.

Oh, Tony thinks.

_That._

“Oh,” Tony says. He bites his lip. He feels, all of the sudden and all at once, very, very, scared. “Would you… like to say anything,” Tony says, gesturing around helplessly.

Steve makes a small, disbelieving noise. “Good morning, Tony.” His hand is on the edge of the door and Tony sees it move in slow motion.

“Wait!” Tony screeches.

The door stops, and Steve looks at Tony impassively.

“Did you mean it,” Tony asks, his eyes fixed on the door beside Steve’s face, feeling completely unable to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Of _course_ I meant it,” Steve says, sounding insulted by the insinuation.

Tony’s heart sinks. This, he’s familiar with. The soft rejection. Being let down gently.

“But not anymore, right?”

“What is _wrong_ with you,” Steve hisses. Tony watches as Steve’s grip on the door turns whiteknuckled.

“Lots of things, really,” Tony says, laughing weakly as he says it. He feels off-balance, doesn’t know what to do next. This is all new ground.

Something seems to shift in Steve, and he looks pained.

“Tony,” he croaks. His hand slides off the door, and it swings open wide. “Just tell me what I did wrong,” he says, eyes downcast.

“You didn’t—” Tony starts, on reflex.

Steve reaches out and cuts him off by resting his hand on Tony’s shoulder: “I did,” Steve says. “I know I did.”

Tony scrubs his face. “Do you mind if we sit down?” He feels dead on his feet and he can tell this will be a long conversation. But a small, secret part of him just wants to know, too, if Steve’ll let him into his apartment.

Steve swallows, takes a step back, and Tony shuts the door as he follows Steve inside, something bright warming up inside him now that he’s here.

“Coffee?” Steve asks, as Tony sits on Steve’s couch and tries not to crane his neck and catalog everything inside.

“Yes, please.”

Steve comes back with two steaming mugs and takes a seat on the couch, a safe distance away from Tony.

“So where do we begin,” Tony says, smiling awkwardly.

Steve shrugs. “I have no idea.”

“I should’ve come up with flash cards.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, maybe.”

They each take a sip of their coffee.

“You know,” Tony says, licking his lips as he bides his time. “I mean—you know. I do, too.”

Steve shakes his head, looking away.

“I wanted you to stay,” Tony barrels on. “I wanted you to stay all the goddamn time, Steve.”

“Why didn’t you say anything, then,” Steve says softly, like he’s afraid to be heard.

But the words fluster Tony, annoy him almost immediately.

“I did say,” Tony snaps. “I said so.”

“What, twice?” Steve says, hackles raising now, too.

“That’s more than you ever said!” Tony says, not caring how defensive he sounds. “And what about all the times you pushed me away?”

“ _Me?”_ Steve sneers. “You’re acting as if I’m the only one who tried to hide this, when you could’ve told anyone!”

“And I didn’t! Because you didn’t want to!” Tony’s anger swells up inside him and makes him stand up. “You never wanted anyone to see that we were together!”

“And neither did you!” Steve says accusingly.

Tony opens his mouth to say something, his mind used to the twists and turns of arguments with Steve, but he comes up empty.

He stares down at Steve, whose cheeks are flushed from exertion. Steve lets out a shaky breath, and with that, Tony feels the fight die out of him. Tony sits back down, rests a hand on Steve’s knee—asking for his attention.

He’s going to say something crazy now, but he only feels like he can because of everything else that’s been said. Maybe he’s much more of a coward than he thought. He’s learning a lot of things tonight, and that may be the worst of it.

“I don’t care about anyone knowing,” Tony says, quietly. “I care about you.”

He hears Steve’s breath catch; he’s so attuned to Steve that he can tell these things. But then again, there are other things he couldn’t tell, either, apparently.

“I care about you too, Tony,” Steve says, and at the sound of his name Tony’s heart does a funny thing where it feels like it’s swollen up so quickly it bursts.

“Good,” Tony breathes out, everything feeling made of glass, wildly fragile and impermanent; he needs, he _needs_ to find stable ground. They both do.

He figures, he’s the best one to lead them there.

“How do you feel about trying this again?” he asks. He looks up and meets Steve’s eyes, then turns his palm up, waiting for Steve to complete the movement.

“What would that mean?” Steve asks, eyes flicking down to Tony’s hand then back up to look at Tony.

“I don’t know, Steve,” Tony says, and his palm is feeling awfully chilly now. “Maybe we could try doing this more.”

“Talking,” Steve deadpans.

Tony huffs out a laugh. “Don’t use that tone with me, we obviously didn’t do it enough for us to be here.”

“Fair,” Steve says, looking down at the floor.

Tony bites his lip. He’s about to jokingly say, _please?_ But then Steve threads their fingers together, a small smile on his lips.

Tony’s sigh of relief is audible in the stillness of the room.

“I don’t know what to say,” Steve says. He shuts his eyes tight and blinks.

Tony edges closer so he can rest his hand on Steve’s cheek, turn Steve’s face to his. He slides his hand back to rest on the base of Steve’s skull, pulls him close and touches their foreheads together.

“Say it again,” Tony whispers.

Steve swallows, and Tony tries to imprint in his memory the way Steve’s eyelashes look, downcast against his cheeks, the way Steve bites down on his lower lip.

“I love you,” Steve says, his voice soft and breath warm against Tony’s chin. The words sound new, and Tony revels at how they take space in the world. _I love you._ The decisiveness of the statement, the unbridled unconditionality of it. How could something so simple be so difficult to extricate from someone? How could three words alleviate such a weight off of Tony’s chest? How is it that the world seems brighter, and warmer, and safer, now that he’s heard it?

It’s Steve. It’s always been Steve.

All this time has just been practice. Maybe now, he can do it right, for once.

“Good,” Tony touches their noses together, breathes. “I love you too.”

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there you have it!
> 
> thank you to every single one of you who has read, commented, kudos-ed, bookmarked, and subscribed. seriously, your comments have brought such joy to my heart. (so much. for real. i will probably reread comments on this fic when i have bad days, lmao.)
> 
> thank you once again to emily, rise, and flame who beta read and helped me through my mini-freakouts, who have handled all of my messages that ended with "???????" truly, this fic would have taken ages to finish if not for you. thanks as well to syan & marine from the POTS discord, who cheered me on for this last chapter!
> 
> feel free to message me on tumblr @firebrands or on twitter @firebrandss (yeah, i know). I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH, I'D LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK 💕

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://firebrands.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/firebrandss)!


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